


Binding Me to You (Sequel to Shackles)

by LadyInStarlight



Series: Shackles [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust in Drag (Hazbin Hotel), Angst, BottomAngelDust, Cannibalism, Choking, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Fluff, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Possessive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Prequel, Protective Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Romance, Sequel, Serial Killer, Spanking, TopAlastor, mentions of torture, shackles, toxic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyInStarlight/pseuds/LadyInStarlight
Summary: Part Sequel / Part Prequel to Shackles!Picking up where “Shackles” left off, Angel is driving himself mad with wedding planning. He’s become a regular groomzilla! Alastor has a solution which is, of course, completely insane and ridiculous. Angel digs it.Additionally, before the wedding takes place we get an in depth look into their past together, taking a multi-chapter detour into the year of 1931. ;)Before you read this story, please see:Shackles by LadyInStarlight - Hazbin Hotel (Web Series) https://archiveofourown.org/works/28732980 via @ao3org^Beware the Tags
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), RadioDust
Series: Shackles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201181
Comments: 88
Kudos: 76





	1. You’re Fucking Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Toxic Relationship, Controlling Behavior, Mentions of Spanking, Mentions of Parent/Child Abuse, Suggested Homophobia, Suggested Murder, Referenced Cannibalism, Light Choking
> 
> Tags: Referenced Spanking, Brat!AngelDust, Wedding Planning, Light Nipple Play, Flashback
> 
> Twitter: @LadyInStarlight

Chapter 1: You’re Fucking Mine

Angel wasn’t a groomzilla, but if another fuckin person came to him with one more fucking mistake, he was gonna scream. He’d asked for black roses in the sample bouquet, god dammit! The blackest they could get and these… they had a purple tinge to them. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t have cursed out the florist in a barrage of Italian profanity, and sure, maybe he shouldn’t have told Alastor to fuck right off when his fiancé called him out on his bad behavior, but all this wedding planning was driving him insane.

All he’d wanted was a quiet wedding: just him and his fella with a couple witnesses at Pentagram City Hall. That’s all he’d wanted. It was Alastor’s fault they were making such a big to-do of it; the Radio Demon and his fucking theatricality. The bastard wanted a big wedding, probably staking his claim after all of Hell had previously watched Angel drive the infamous Radio Demon half insane and send him on a wild goose-chase through hell. Fair. Angel could deal with the man he loved being a little overly showy and possessive. It was their schtick. But guess who had to deal with the flowers, the seating arrangements, the decorations, the catering, and everything else Alastor’s flaky ass couldn’t be bothered with?

Angel was fucking livid.

“So Mr. High and Fuckin Mighty thought it would be a good idea t’ tell me ta ‘calm down’ t’day and I fuckin’ lost it, babes,” he said, trying his best not to flail his arms and gesture as he spoke while a team of manicurists worked on his nails. The slices of cucumber over his eyes and thick green facial mask didn’t particularly help to soothe him, but at least this shithole smelled like scented oils instead of sulfur. Better than most of hell. 

Cherri made a quiet noise of agreement, a little ‘uh huh’, likely distracted by the massage chair and the pedicure she was receiving. He continued: “Seriously, he grabbed me around the waist and said ‘CALM DOWN’ in front of the stupid fuckin florist, all while usin’ that commandin’ tone of his. I said t’ him ‘Don’t ya fuckin’ chastise me, ya limp-dicked power-hungry piece of shit. Vaffanculo, stronzo!’ Anyway, he sent the fucker away, bent me over the nearest table, and whooped my whore ass until I begged him t’ fuck me. It was… fuckin’ great, if I’m bein’ honest, but we’re still in a fight, ‘cause I won’t apologize.”

“Ange, you’re ALWAYS in a fight,” she said with a laugh. “Still, plenty-a time to call off the wedding. I won’t make your bitch ass reimburse me for the fuckin dress I had to buy if that’s what your worried about.”

The faintest smile tugged at his lips. He sighed, letting himself really finally just… exhale. This was silly. He knew it was silly. He knew he was being ridiculous. He had about thirty shopping bags surrounding his chair to prove just how ridiculous he was behaving. And it wasn’t exactly his money he was spending, of course. “Nah, I love the bastard,” he mumbled, inwardly wincing as he remembered how angry Alastor had looked when Angel told him— after a particularly rough bout of sex, mind you— that he meant what he said and he wouldn’t take the words back. He was definitely gonna regret giving Al that bit of lip later. His asshole throbbed just thinking about it. “I hate this wedding shit though. I think it’s makin’ me even more of a crazy bitch. It’s so… stressful. I just wanna be married. I hate all this extra bullshit; all the plannin, preparations, and… I dunno…”

Cherri blinked and rolled her eye. “Ange, babe, just fuckin elope. Deer Daddy can afford to give up a few stupid nonrefundable deposits if this wedding shit is making you miserable.” 

“He’s the one who wants the big weddin’,” Angel said, groaning slightly. “This is all his fuckin fault if ya think about it. Gotta bend myself ova’ backwards so he can show off t’ everyone… Ya know what, I’m just not gonna fuckin do it. He can fuckin plan it. I’m done.”

“I knew ya’d get there eventually,” Cherri said with a snort. “Congratulations. I woulda thrown that wedding planning bullshit out the window months ago.” A pause. “I can’t believe you convinced him to open a credit card, Ange. Ya think he’s gonna see how much ya spent today, because I do NOT wanna be there when he realizes you went on a total fucking shopping spree.” 

“Bitch, how would he know? He won’t see a bank statement until it comes in the fuckin MAIL,” he said, laughing aloud. There were some benefits to having a fella who refused to deal with any post-1930s technology. Besides, I needed retail therapy. Someone get me a fuckin drink. I’m parched—“

After a time, Angel heard the soft click of approaching footsteps, smelled the rich fruity scent of wine, and felt the cool kiss of a glass against his lower lip. He sipped gratefully, letting the liquid slide down his throat.

Then, he heard Cherri’s sharp intake of breath and knew he was fucked. Clawed fingers plucked a cucumber slice from one of his eyes, and he saw red.

“Why hello, Mon Amour,” Alastor quipped, smiling down at him with that sinister grin that masked the torrents of rage sparking and sputtering behind those flashing crimson eyes. Angel noticed Cherri, face full of ‘nope’, sprint out the door. She knew the deal: when it came to battles between Angel and Alastor, it was better just to bail. Angel much preferred to deal with these situations himself… for obvious reasons. 

They usually ended in sex.

“Hey, Daddy,” he said nonchalantly, feigning a composure he really did not feel in that moment. “How ya doin, hot stuff? Sent yer shadows out searchin’ fa me again? Ya know, if ya had a hellphone—“ Alastor wordlessly nodded to a trembling employee who began wiping away Angel’s face mask with a damp towel. The words hitched in Angel’s throat. He accepted another sip of the wine as one of those gloved hands brought the glass to his lips once more. The employee bolted the second his face was clean. Shit. “So, um, here’s the thing.”

Alastor’s grin widened as he made a noncommittal “Mmm hmm,” noise, crimson eyes dragging meaningfully over all the shopping bags as if to illustrate a point. “Oh yes, do tell me, mon cher, why you saw fit to spend 23,694 dollars on fripperies.”

Oooof. He really shoulda looked before he swiped. This is what he got for rage shopping. Ah well, only one way out of this. His best excuse— the one that won him every argument. “Rememba how ya tricked me inta cookin people when we were alive?”

“Oh for—“ Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, that smile faltering slightly at the corners. “Anthony, you cannot keep using that against me! It was nearly a century ago and it is not relevant to the current situation. That is not an excuse!”

Dammit, that usually worked. 

“I was mad?” He tried, flushing as his fiancé snapped those gloved fingers with a loud, resounding click. Every shopping bag vanished and he had little doubt the Radio Demon would get refunded for each purchase. 

“Try again,” Alastor purred, touching the wine glass to his lips one last time before setting it aside. Angel obediently took the arm Alastor offered and quietly followed him out of the spa, relieved to see money appear on the counter to both pay and handsomely tip the staff. At least Alastor had etiquette towards paying for services rendered. They walked in silence for a long time, the final command lingering in the air between them. Try again.

He didn’t speak until they’d reached the hotel— until Alastor teleported them into their bedroom and Angel took a seat on the soft sheets. 

“Al, listen, I’ve just been feelin’… fuck I shouldn’t have done it, alright?” Angel said, squirming under those piercing red eyes. Clawed fingers traced along his neck, making him shudder at the thought of that hand closing around his throat. Fuck he could use that right about now. “I’m sorry. I’ve been… just… stressed and overwhelmed lately. I know that’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

A pause. A squeezing grip around his throat. A bit too tight.

“Excuse me?” Alastor purred, voice low, softening his hold so Angel could breath freely after a beat. “Clarify that statement, Mon Amour.”

“Plannin’ the weddin’, I mean,” Angel said, hurrying in a breathless rush to reassure his powerful and volatile fiancé. Satan forbid the bastard got it in his head that Angel planned to leave him again. His ass would be sore for weeks and he’d have no fucking privacy. “Al, I need ya t’ take ova’ the plannin’. I hate it. I really fuckin’ hate it. It’s drivin’ me insane, cause I don’t… want any of it.”

Alastor froze. His eyes softened. Angel’s breath hitched as the man moved closer, pressing their foreheads together. Those slim, strong arms finally wound around him and he shuddered, melting into a now-familiar embrace. “Angel… you don’t want… to get married?” There was a bit of hurt there, pushed down and hidden, but Angel caught it.

“It ain’t that, Smiles,” Angel said, smiling faintly at the brief exhale of relief that warmed his cheek. “I wanna get married. I really wanna get married. I hate… all the extra stuff. No big show. I just wanna BE married t’ ya, not go through the bullshit party fa all of hell t’ see. I sound… stupid. Sorry.”

A gleam in those hungry, sharp eyes caught him off guard. Alastor lips peppered kisses along his neck, a low purring sort of song whispering in his ear:

“We can get married in the springtime.  
It’ll be easier when you’re all mine.  
Yes, Utterly sublime in springtime.”

Angel blinked. Springtime? It was spring now. Did he mean this time next year? Did he wanna move the wedding date a few months up from June 10th or something?

No… that didn’t make sense, but neither did the alternative.

“Wait, Al,” he stammered, flushing as a deft hand slid off his shirt and pinched one of his nipples, teasing and flicking it with a gloved claw. “I-it’s Spring now... ya mean now? Ya don’t mean now!”

Alastor continued, grin widening:

“We can do it right here in the hotel.  
Now wouldn’t that be swell,  
Right here in the hotel?

“Al, We’re not gettin’ married right here, right now. There’s shit to do. Plannin’. Decorations. Invitations. You’re fuckin crazy.” Even as he spoke, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. White satin materialized on his own body, cool and slippery. Alastor’s outfit morphed itself into a tux. 

“You’re ‘fuckin’ mine.  
Why waste time?  
I’ve got your heart,  
So let’s just start.  
Why be apart?”

The kiss, as always, tasted like heat and spice. Angel tangled his fingers into that crimson hair and laughed, half sobbing in relief. Whatever Alastor was throwing together— “...Ya know what, fine. Fuck it. Let’s do this.”

He knew this was probably insane, and poor Charlie would be in a state of justifiable anxiety trying to get them to ‘slow down’ and rethink their hasty decision making, but he didn’t care. He wrapped himself around Alastor, thighs winding around his waist, lower set of arms around his torso, and upper set of arms over his shoulders. 

Another kiss, deeper now, all heat and memory mixed together, making his eyes glaze with tears. He saw the man he first fell in love with through that foggy haze; saw the tan skin, handsome features, and neat brown hair he remembered from so long ago. 

A sad story. 

He clung tighter to Alastor, shuddering. 

A horror story.

“Al, when did ya know I was yer Anthony?” He whispered, closing his eyes and burying his face into the crook of Alastor’s neck. “Ya still haven’t told me when ya found out.”

A love story.

Alastor made a tsking sound, nibbling along Angel’s neck distractedly. “Not very long after we first slept together, my dear. I had not thought it possible I would form another attachment after losing my Anthony, and my strange attraction to the lascivious Angel Dust came as a surprise to me. The need to control— to possess… so odd. We were bickering, I believe, and my cane went off on its own accord, started playing OUR song. A verse from Helen Kane’s marvelous little ditty ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You’. I had to smash it against the bar to stop it. Quite startled everyone I think. That’s when… I knew… my darlings were one in the same, and I needed to act fast to secure you to me further.”

Angel blinked, eyes widening. Shit. He HAD thought that song sounded familiar. He wanted to punch himself for not remembering everything then and there. So much time wasted not knowing. Yes, he remembered. Now he remembered dancing to it, laughing and badly singing the verses to Alastor, trying to mimic Kane’s “Boop-boop-a-doop” while still keeping his heavy accent and pitching up his voice. It always put the other man in stitches, had him clutching his side while belting out that warm, booming laughter.

“Al...” He took the man’s face in his hands and looked deep into his eyes. Eyes like burning coals. “I wanna be loved by you, just you. And nobody else but you. I wanna be loved by you, alone…” he whispered, smiling faintly through his tears while repeating words from the song. “I’m so happy we found each other here in hell. I wish… I wish it had been sooner.”

He imagined if he and Alastor had found each other decades and decades ago. Would the pain of their past together been too raw for Angel to forgive it?

He didn’t think so.

Those coals burned, flaring with hot determination. Alastor lifted him, wordlessly, and carried him from the room. Shadows moved like hotel staff through the halls, throwing something quick together with enough flare to suit their master.

Angel knew that Alastor planned to bind them together with the most powerful, ridiculous fucking demon marriage vows he could get his hands on— would have Angel agree to a deal of a marriage that would stitch them together for eternity, no matter what happened. He knew it would be ludicrous, and perhaps some might even call it controlling… but he was ready for it. He knew every word, every consequence, ever pro and con. They’d discussed the vows at length, agreed to terms and conditions through quiet bedroom discussions in the shadows of the night.

He wanted this. 

They would never be separated again.

— 1931, New York City —

Anthony clutched a borrowed purse close to his chest as he approached the massive steel centipede. She roared, purred, and hissed when he neared her; his stomach seized at the sight of those large steel features. The Crescent Limited. Her two-tone green passenger cars gleamed in the bright morning light, gold lettering and trim seeming to glimmer like something all too precious. Too expensive. Too unreal.

He couldn’t do this. He’d never been on a train before, and he had no idea how to… make something of himself. 

“Now listen, kid.” A pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. He looked down at the man touching him, fighting back the tears that stung at the corners of his eyes. Uncle Louie; unrecognizable in a cheap wig, a fake nose, and an oversized coat. Uncle Louie; who brought him to the train station against his better judgement, because he worried his nephew might not make the leap to freedom out of fear. A final goodbye and he couldn’t even see his Uncle’s true face one last time. Well, better safe than sorry. Disguises were the name of the game today, and Uncle Louie wasn’t the only one playing a part. “This wasn’t cheap, and neither are you, so make the most of it, and for heaven’s sake don’t ya ever come back.” The hands gripping his shoulders shook him a little. Desperate. Hopeful. “Ain’t a whole lotta second chances in life, but yer ma, god bless her fuckin soul,” Louie made the sign of the cross, “She’d be proud of ya fa leavin’.”

Anthony bit his lip. Would she be proud? He wished he could take Molly with him at least, but his sister wouldn’t budge when he tried to convince her. “I’m abandonin’ —“ 

“No. Kid, yer different.” His uncle said, casting a brief glance at the dainty floral attire Anthony donned so comfortably. The dress was fashionably fitted at the waist and fell at that perfect length between mid calf and ankle. Anthony, with his slender form, striking features, and wavy blonde hair, wore it well— even if he had a little too much makeup on his face to hide black and blue bruises. Molly had done her best to cover them. “And yer padre… he ain’t eva’ gonna come around. Stayin’ here…”

It was a death sentence. 

They knew that now. 

Anthony straightened his back and lifted his chin. Fuck it. No more waffling. He had a chance to live; a chance to be more than just a criminal; Maybe even a chance to be more himself, even if that meant being a degenerate, a Nancy Boy, an Ethel. “How’d ya afford this, Zio,” he whispered, glancing back at the train with rising dread. The cost... “It’s gotta be expensive.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I know a guy. Let’s call him Benny,” Uncle Louie said. He knew a guy. Well, Anthony had heard that line before. Perhaps it was a fixture that came with being part of a Mafia family. Everyone knew a guy for just about everything, and he’d met too many guys hired by his padre who specialized in making the fellas he fancied disappear. If he stayed, he would disappear next. “Now, ya might ride there in style, but ya won’t have much when ya get there, so remember t’ keep yer wits about ya, and just like I said, ya gotta rememba ya ain’t Tony anymore. Baby, ya gotta change yer name. Yer Angela on the train, and yer gonna wanna have a new name picked out by the time ya change back inta some ‘fella clothes.’ It’ll take between 30-40 hours to reach the New Orleans: The Crescent City. Think about it on the train and have yer life story ready on yer tongue when ya get there. Don’t come back. Capiche?” 

Anthony nodded mutely, throat suddenly very dry. He didn’t trust himself to speak— didn’t trust that he could form words that wouldn’t turn to dust and dry sobs. 

A new life. A new chance.

It would be okay. He was going far away. His hand found the rosary around his neck, a parting gift from his sister. He squeezed and stroked a thumb over the beads, hoping God heard his prayer even if he didn’t deserve those pearly gates.

He was going far away.

_The year was 1931,  
And I was young and dumb and fun.  
Al, I still had all my zest for life.  
Thought I’d take my chance ta live it right. _

_Benny got me papers ta get on the train.  
Louie told me “baby, gotta change your name!”  
Molly had me dressed up like a lady doll.  
And Al, at nineteen I left them all,  
...behind... _

_I took the Crescent Limited,  
out of New York City.  
I guess ya could say,  
I was sittin’ pretty. _

_And every single day,  
ta myself I would pray,  
it's gonna be okay,  
you're goin’ far away.  
you're goin’ far away. _

_But ya end right back where ya started,  
As they say home is where the heart is,  
And all of my runnin did nothin but make me weaker,  
And all of my dreamin’, jazz music swingin, just made me cheaper. _

_I took the Crescent Limited,  
out of New York City.  
I guess you could say,  
I was sittin’ pretty. _

_And every single day,  
ta myself I would pray,  
it's gonna be okay,  
you're goin’ far away,  
you're goin’ far away. _

_Ya wanna find somethin worth keepin,  
But dreams are just meant fa sleepin,  
And every fella on earth will hurt you,  
And every chance ya take will just prove... _  
...You’re a failure...

_You’re a failure._

_I took the Crescent Limited,  
out of New York City.  
I thought I’d be free,  
I’d be sittin pretty,  
But all that I found,  
Is that life swings around,  
And around and around,  
...and around...” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Review 👁👄👁👏


	2. Meeting Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Orleans, Louisiana. 1931
> 
> The first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Attempted Date Rape (a spiked drink), Possessive Behavior, Predatory Behavior, Outdated Ideas Regarding Gender Roles, Mentions of Homophobia
> 
> Twitter: @LadyInStarlight

Chapter 2 : Meeting Smiles

— 1931, New Orleans —

New Orleans, Louisiana was the prettiest place Anthony had ever seen. The architecture fascinated him with its mismatch of styles; some buildings boxy, some tall, some short, some columned, some with intricate balconies, some with connecting ironworks, some with wrapping front porches, and all in different pops of color. Bungalows, cottages, townhouses, dance clubs, speakeasies, and shops of all sorts. 

But, unfortunately, he couldn’t enjoy the scenery to the utmost due to certain… misfortunes… plaguing him. 

Luggage? Vanished. 

Money? Almost Out. 

Prospects? None. 

He arrived in the city completely done in, nauseous, and jittery from his long— such an incredibly long— journey. Finding a place to stay was more a matter of dragging his body into the closest establishment as opposed to the best or cheapest option. At least he’d kept some jack in his shoe, though certainly not enough to last him beyond an overpriced stay in a shitty hotel. He hadn’t felt comfortable sleeping on the train, and that left him too bone tired to think logically or soundly. He paid for a single night at the nearest hotel and slept until his body finally regained a modicum of its usual energy, leaving him with mere pennies in his sock and nothing else. 

Now, Anthony found himself wandering through the French quarter, staring stupidly at the beautiful buildings and bouncing along to the music pouring out of clubs and dance halls. Cars, like black beetles with glowing circular eyes, zipped through the streets. A trolley hummed past him carrying a load of passengers. It looked to Anthony like a ferry on wheels. The fellas he saw wore suits and fine hats. The birds wore tailored dresses. 

And Anthony…

He was still in the same fucking dress, hastily hand-washed in tepid bath water. The damn thing felt slightly damp against his skin, having been hung to air dry by the hotel window while he slept. It gave him a little chill in the evening air, but at least he was clean. A bath and a solid sleep had done him a world of good.

But he had nothing and he didn’t know what to do or where to go from here. A new life… how does a fella of 19 start a new life? He never once had any control over his previous life, never had a chance at independence or anything resembling normalcy. What was worse, he didn’t have his gun, didn’t have his fella clothes, and didn’t have an inkling of a safety net in this new place.

Not to mention, the country was in a depression. Honest work wasn’t so easy to come by if your only skills were shooting a gun and wearing dresses, the latter of which Anthony had recently decided he quite liked. The dress, despite being cold and damp, suited him just fine. The lack of a weapon did not. 

And he was… lost. 

Aimless.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

He felt men staring at him. Their eyes, those hungry watchful eyes, gave him the heebie jeebies. At the same time, all this attention filled him with a queer sort of giddiness. He turned heads. He was… pretty. He could get used to that.

…Though he doubted their interest would last if they knew what merchandise he was sporting under the dress. He could already hear the impact of fists on flesh, already imagine the snap of bone. 

He might have felt less jittery about the way they watched him if only he had his pistol. 

The thought crossed his mind that he could find an older fella… just this once. Maybe get a little quick cash if he flirted and offered some particular services, but he abandoned the idea immediately. For one, almost any fella he came across would kill him the second they knew what he was. Not to mention, even if he happened to find someone keen… he’d never been with a fella before. He had his crushes, a few kisses here and there, a sweet snuggle pup or two, but the men he liked always disappeared. His padre set him up with a hired dame once, an effort to make a ‘real man’ out of him, but he couldn’t go through with it, and she lied for him to cover his shame. Nice broad.

He stopped in the center of the sidewalk, raking his eyes over signs with flashy advertisements, cluttered cobble streets, and the many doorways offering so many different possibilities. 

It was getting late, but what else could he do? He didn’t have the money for another night at a hotel. He shivered, thankful the night air wasn’t any cooler. He would be in a bind if this place were anything like New York City.

A man in pale blue caught his eye at the door of some swanky juice joint where the music rolled out the windows and into the streets. The man smiled at him, gestured for him to come— come inside. He musta made a really swell-lookin’ dame, getting solicited to enter places he really had no business in.

But… the music drew him in. That wild, beautiful music that had his heart thumping and his mood lightening. Maybe just a look. Maybe just a glance. Maybe it would be warm inside. He couldn’t help but obey the call.

There were so many people in the ritzy club, so many eyes glancing his way, looking him up and down. He wrapped his arms around himself, wondered if poor Molly ever felt like this, and then wished he hadn’t thought of her. 

He kept walking, feeling himself being guided deeper and deeper by stares and smiles, until another fella— with a wink and a grin— opened a false wall and ushered him into a back room where the lights were dim and the songs were sweet. Prohibition be damned. A drink… he could really use…

Oh, the drinks came of their own accord. Fellas popping out of the woodwork to get this pretty little bunny about the town something to soothe the senses. Drinks in his hand, fellas all around. They wanted to chat. He shrunk under all the attention. He wasn’t used to this. He was used to playing the part of an intimidating gangster, not some pretty milquetoast.

But he could pretend he didn’t see them as he listened to the music and sipped a busthead that tasted all wrong. Then another. Then another. They kept appearing in his hand, always full. He watched a canary sing on the stage. He stared at her with bleary eyes, listening to tales of love from yesterday, wondering if new beginnings included new love too. 

“Lookie here, now what do I see? Why, a Sheba I find, waiting for me,” A stranger purred, popping out from the shadows and approaching him with a spring in his step and a spark in his eye. “What brings an angel like you to a place like this?” The man moved like a fox circling a particularly juicy rabbit, and Anthony had a feeling he wasn’t particularly safe around this stranger; Not when a hand settled on his arm and that smile became sinister. Woozy. Why was he so woozy? He’d never been a lightweight. “You new in town, sugar? How’s about I show ya around?” 

The hand gripped his arm too tightly. The stranger had eyes on a dark little hallway off to the side and pulled him in that general direction, all the while keeping up that playful crooning facade.

“No t-thank youuu,” Anthony managed to say. The words sounded slurred even to his own ears. 

“Oh, but I think you need to lie down, my baby vamp. You’re wall-eyed, wet, and woozy,” he purred. “I’ll take special care of you.”

Anthony’s wide eyes flitted around the room, searching for an escape from this handsy cake-eater, when suddenly he caught sight of a tall man tapping along to the music. Oh Daddy. The fella caught his eye for some reason and he couldn’t look away once their gazes met. He had tan skin, neat brown hair, and a broad, strangely captivating smile. The man returned his stare, studied him, and, without a second’s hesitation, glided towards the two of them with his arms outstretched.

“Darling! There you are,” he boomed in a voice that turned a dozen heads when he spoke. He had such a refined accent, sounding like one of the fellas from the radio. That uppity way of talking was so beyond Anthony’s own abilities. Surely, no one would believe a fella like this would mingle with someone like him? But he would take help where he could get it. The man continued speaking: “Ah, I thank you for protecting my sweetie, dear fellow, but your services are no longer required.” His smile never wavered as he looped an arm around Anthony’s waist and plucked him from the stranger’s grasp.

If the foxy man wanted to argue, he found not a second to interject, because this smiling fancy fella had such a fast way of speaking, with words that kept going, and going, and going. He prattled on about being so very concerned, and did his love want some water, and was his baby doll feeling well, and did his honey want to get closer to or further from the stage? Eventually, the goon gave up and wandered off, searching for an easier target.

Creepy bastard. Anthony hoped he never found a victim, his stomach sinking at the thought that he might and no one would put a bullet through his head for it.

Fuck, he was so tired… so… so tired. 

He bit his lip and glanced at his rescuer, cheeks shifting to the faintest pink. They were nearly the same height and the dark gaze that met his own sparked with amusement behind a pair of spectacles. He appeared older, perhaps in his early 30s, and he had such a dazzling smile— a real light-up-the-room sorta smile. This fella embodied Anthony’s type to a T. The suit. The way he carried himself. Everything. He had a real good-lookin, Daddy sorta vibe. Anthony tried to remind himself that swoonin’ over a fella never did him any good. He was such a fucking degenerate. “Thank ya,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Thought he was gonna eat me or somethin’.”

“Eat you? Why, I don’t think you’ve done anything to deserve that fate, my dear!” The man laughed heartily as if at some great joke Anthony was not privy to. Well, maybe this handsome sheik was a little odd, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. “Alastor is the name. Happy to be of service.” 

A name. That’s right, he had to give a name… 

Fuck. 

Anthony’s brain sputtered to a halt and he shot a glance at the exit, thinking perhaps he should scoot before he made an even bigger goof of himself. “I-I really oughta go,” he stammered, wanting to unwind from the protective arm around his waist while also craving the featherlight touch in a queer way he couldn’t quite understand. He was really starting to feel… a little strange. Sick. Sleepy. “I shouldn’t be here, Smiles.”

“And how! Now on that I think we can both agree. Smiles? You know, that’s a nickname I don’t very much mind,” Alastor said, shooting a glare over Anthony’s shoulder and drawing him a little closer. Why did his knees feel so close to buckling? The world spun around him. “Horsefeathers, did you watch the bartender pour your drinks, my dear? You seem a tad less than copacetic. Here now, have a seat. Let me have a look at you. Oh applesauce! I do think some nefarious fellow might have slipped you a Mickey.” 

Blurry. Everything was… blurry. He found himself lifted into a chair, the heat of Alastor’s body drawing closer as the man studied him. Genuine concern flashing behind those spectacles. Anger too. Anger at whoever did this. Something dark. Would this fella protect him? Anthony thought he might. He seemed the protective sort, all principle and flashing eyes. The hands on his face felt so nice and all he could see clearly was a pair of winking cheaters and smiling lips. He leaned in and kissed them. They tasted like heat and spice. A spark. He felt a spark there. 

Alastor did not return the kiss, drawing back in such a firm, disapproving manner while still remaining close. So very close. Sinfully close. “I will forgive the impertinence this time as I am sure now that you are not in your—“

Anthony fell forward into strong, waiting arms.

The world went black.

He woke in a strange room on a strange bed with a raging headache. One look into an ornate mirror standing against a nearby wall and he knew the makeup he’d hastily applied to hide his black eye and the bruising across his face had smudged and melted away at some point. His clothing remained in tact. No one had dared undress him at least. 

Well, of course he’d fucked up again. 

He sat up and studied his surroundings. Ornate furniture carved from dark rich wood, a duvet with red brocade patterns, a soft Persian rug with golden tassels on the floors, framed portraits on the walls, and the smell of something hot cooking from within the house. There was a negro woman in one of the pictures, standing beside a white man. He wondered who she might be. 

He slid off the bed and began searching for an escape. No windows in this bedroom. No way out except… He touched the door handle, tested it, and found it locked. His heart hammered in his chest. No. 

No no no.

His brain rushed to put together the pieces of the night before. He winced as he vaguely remembered mashing his lips against those of a stranger… Alastor was it? Good looking. A proper sort too. Appeared a gentleman. Alright, so Alastor had seemed like a nice enough fella. Maybe he would be fine. Maybe the only reason he was locked in was because the man didn’t want some strange ‘broad’ wandering around his house. Yeah. This was fine.

It would be fine. 

Anthony just needed to relax. He would thank Alastor kindly, titter and giggle in the most appealing way he could manage, and be on his merry way, completely unharmed. 

Surely if the man wanted to hurt him he would have done so already.

He heard some movement in the hall just outside the door, the jaunty tune of a whistle, and the clack of footsteps. Forcing down his apprehension, he knocked on the dark wood to get his… host’s… attention, falling back when the sound of steps paused and a key clicked into place. 

The handle turned. Alastor met his nervous gaze with a bright, easy smile. However, it promptly twitched downwards at the corners, growing close-mouthed and tight-lipped, as those dark eyes studied Anthony’s battered features. Just another thing he couldn’t explain without fabricating some immaculate lie. Fuck. Well, he just wouldn’t explain. He wouldn’t give a name and he wouldn’t explain.

The man couldn’t do anything with nothing, right?

“Can I start by sayin’ thank ya and I’m so, so sorry fa the inconvenience,” Anthony said in a rush. He offered a sheepish and demure smile, hoping Alastor would answer it in kind— would pretend he didn’t see the bruises. No such fucking luck. The man’s eyes were fixed on his face, caught up in a trance of studying him. 

“Ha! No no no! Don’t mention it, my dear. Happy to be of service,” Alastor said, speaking in that bouncy, transatlantic accent the young blonde found so strangely appealing. He offered his arm, and Anthony took it with a shaky hand, letting the man lead him through the tight halls of this strange little house. He wasn’t used to fellas offering to… escort him. Well, of course he wasn’t. 

The home stood two stories. Forest green wallpaper. A wooden staircase jutting through the center. Cluttered. Homey somehow. It needed a dusting. Anthony thought perhaps he could give it a shine. He wasn’t particularly domestic, but he had helped his ma clean the house when her aches and pains were too much to bear. He could make this place gleam… wait, why did he wanna clean this man’s house so bad? What was wrong with him? “I live a ways outside the city proper, but I can certainly drive you to… wherever you might be staying. Where might you be staying?” Alastor’s words sounded calculated, uncertain, as if he would choose where to take this broken creature only after analyzing the acquired information and deciding the best course of action for himself. Anthony figured he might very well plan to give whoever had placed the bruises on his face a piece of his mind. Well, thankfully the two men would never meet. Alastor coaxed him to sit on a plush red couch once they reached the living room and then put a solid five feet of distance between them, offering him something to drink.

Anthony faltered. Sure, he could lie, but he didn’t know street names or what would sound most believable in that moment, and without the lie ready on his tongue it became apparent that he was not planning to tell the truth. He gave up and chose a vague response instead. “If ya could… jus’ bring me back t’ near where I was… I think that would do jus’ fine.”

Wrong answer.

Alastor tilted his head. “I see,” he said. “I do hate to pry but—“

“Then don’t.” Anthony cut him off, crossing his legs under the dress. ‘Ladies don’t cross their legs like this’, he thought to himself… well, who fuckin cared? Maybe he didn’t have to be a proper fuckin lady. He wasn’t a broad to begin with, so he might as well play an unconventional bitch. He smoothed out the soft pink material with his hands.

Alastor considered his words, lips twitching with amused glee at the fiery spark his guest displayed. “You see my dilemma, don’t you? I couldn’t very well leave a lady to roam the streets of New Orleans unescorted, especially one who seems—.”

New tactic. Anthony gritted his teeth and said: “I can take care of myself, bub. I’ll have ya know I ain’t no delicate fuckin flower.”

Alastor’s smile broadened then. His tone grew teasing. “Oh-ho! Can you now? I never would have known given your unfortunate episode last night.”

Oh, so he was a pompous asshole?

Alright. Fuck this guy. 

Anthony stood. “I think I’ll be goin’,” he said, making a beeline for the front door. “With or without yer help.”

Alastor trotted ahead of him with a merry spring in his step and opened the door wide, giving a chivalric bow while arching a single brow. “Ab-so-lute-ly! Far be it from me to detain you!”

Anthony stepped outside.

Trees. Fuckin trees everywhere. 

Well, fuck. 

“Take me back t’ the city,” he snapped, swiveling on his heel and storming up to this strange, grinning fool. They were the same height, but it felt like Alastor was smiling down at him, mocking him behind those spectacles. He clenched his fist. He could fucking throttle this bastard. 

“Of course! Of course!” Alastor boomed, eyes opening comically wide. “Simply give me the location and we’ll be on our merry way!” 

“Don’t got one,” Anthony snapped, exasperated. The honest truth spilled out before he could push it back in. “I’m still workin on that bit, alright? Is that what ya wanted t’ hear, ya lousy no-good son-of-a-bitch. I’m still…” Fuck no. No no no. He was not gonna fucking cry. He would NOT start crying. He was already dressed like a dame. He didn’t need to get all emotional like one! 

But the tears fell of their own accord, and he couldn’t keep them stoppered off he tried. They leaked from his eyes in rivers and streams. Suddenly the impact of all that he’d endured over the past couple days struck him like a train: leaving behind his brother, Molly, Uncle Louie, Ma’s grave… and then all the mistakes he’d made… losing his luggage… getting drugged… it was all too much. He couldn’t keep pushing it down; this pain. This hurt. This frustration.

His body shook with the sobs. He covered his mouth, trying to stifle the wail caught in his throat. No no no. He couldn’t contain it.

Alastor, mocking smile briefly forgotten, wrapped strong, slim arms around him; pulled him close against a solid chest. Anthony broke then, weeping into the broad shoulder of this irritating stranger who rocked him and soothed him with French endearments. It felt natural to cling to this lifeline, to let himself be folded into the warmth of a man he did not know, but who seemed so oddly comforting even in his annoying mannerisms. When the arms enfolded him, he couldn’t help but think they fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

He couldn’t say just how it happened… but he accepted the man’s offer to stay a while. Just a while. He could tell Alastor was apprehensive even as he made the offer. A compulsion to help, perhaps. A strange urge to remain close that neither of them could explain. It would just be until they could find him a job, of course. They would get him on his feet, perhaps set him up in a boarding house. 

For now, Anthony was stuck playing a nameless dame. Fuck if he knew how long he could keep this schtick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Review 👁👄👁💕❤️!!!!


	3. Love In New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two broken people falling in love in New Orleans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: protective/Possessive Behavior, predatory Behavior, Threats of Violence, Dangerous Toxic Love, hints of Cannibalism, Painful First Time, Period-Relevant Ideas of Gender Roles, Mentions of Homophobia

Chapter 3 : Love In New Orleans

Don’t open the guest bedroom door on the second floor. 

It was off limits. Private. Locked for a reason. 

Don’t go through the white chiller. It had a lock on it for a reason. Alastor was very particular about his meat, and he didn’t want his guest touching that… venison. If his guest needed something from the market, Alastor would happily accompany ‘her’ and they would make a day of it together!

Lights out and locked in the bedroom by 10pm. No exceptions.

They had a game too: Every evening Alastor tried to guess his name. 

He never did come close. 

“Margaret, Rosie, Anabelle, Mary,” Alastor listed, counting off the names on his fingers while Anthony battled with a massive pot. He’d recently found an old jambalaya recipe on a faded piece of paper in one of the cabinet drawers and he wanted to try his hand at cooking the damn thing. Call it a small ‘thank you’ to his cheery host for two weeks of free room and board.

Two weeks. He’d been sponging off Alastor for two weeks and there was no end in sight. He cooked and cleaned for the man, which seemed to please him immensely. The house fucking sparkled, that was for damn sure. He was a regular fucking housewife. It was a shock to realize he might be good for something other than shooting. That fact made Anthony laugh to himself. The first time Alastor tried his cooking, his whole face lit up with delight. He called it the bees knees, told Anthony he hit on all sixes. Ma always did say food was the way to a fella’s heart. He wished that were the case.

This particular fella never behaved in a manner that could be construed as predatory or inappropriate. At first, Anthony felt relieved, knowing at the very least he did not need to bat off any advances, but lately the man’s lack of interest piqued him in a way that was concerning to say the least

Sure, Alastor irritated him. Anthony had found over the past couple weeks that their personalities were particularly combative. They bickered and teased one another constantly, but… He was definitely attracted to Alastor. More than attracted, the prissy jerk gave him fuckin butterflies— made him a flushing, sputtering idiot.

He wanted Alastor to want him, even if it would completely ruin this perfect setup he had going for him and make his entire situation unnecessarily difficult. He couldn’t help but flirt a little, show a little skin, and try his utmost to ruffle the feathers of that prim and proper bastard. 

No such luck so far. 

On this particular day, he wore a daringly short dress; one he’d sewn himself from a roll of fabric Alastor had on hand. Alastor told him he was a regular little spider, quick with a needle and thread. Not half bad at all. The dress showed off his gams at least. He may not have real tits, but he had nice legs, and anything he could use to entice his Smiles was fair game. 

He hadn’t gotten so much as a glance yet. 

Anthony laid out his ingredients and began chopping vegetables on the cutting board, moving the blade expertly as he sliced and diced. He was quick with a knife. It felt like an extension of his hand. “No, no, and no,” he said, barely hiding his amusement when Alastor growled in frustration. “Yer not gonna guess it, ya Dick. Just give it up already.” When he turned around, knife in hand, Alastor was right behind him. He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Oh fa fuck’s sake, Al. I coulda cut ya! Be careful.” He set the knife down, trying not to let this newfound proximity set his heart pounding. This was… new. 

“Oh, my greatest apologies,” Alastor said, laughing heartily while placing a hand on either side of Anthony. He cornered the effeminate younger man against the counter, leaning in closer. His eyes narrowed. Anthony watched as one of those tan hands coiled around the handle of the blade. He placed his own hand over it, an acknowledgement of the threat that earned him a flash of interest behind the spectacles. “Barbara, Penelope, Molly.” 

“No, no, and I actually have a sister named Molly…” Anthony said softly, feeling himself go weak in the knees under that sharp gaze. It lit up at the mention of some paltry piece of information about Anthony’s life, absorbing the new fact eagerly and filing it away. Alastor would ask him all about Molly later, he just knew it. This odd man… wanted to KNOW him. “Ya don’t usually get this close, Al. Don’t tell me ya finally started carryin’ a torch fa little ole me.” He tapped Alastor’s nose, watching him recoil and clear his throat. The knife released. Touch lost. “Ya can’t intimidate me int’ tellin’ ya neitha’. I can always give ya a fake name again. Ain’t my fault that last time ya ‘deduced’ it weren’t real before the day was out. Coulda just let the lie become the truth if ya stopped analyzin’ everythin’.”

“I can’t very well find you employment if I don’t know who you are!” Alastor said, rolling his eyes. It was a lie, of course. They both knew that. Alastor deemed every prospective job they came across unfitting for “mon ange”, whatever that odd French nickname meant. He was so… particular. So protective. He moved in closer again. “It’s time you level with me, my dear. Come now, no more secrets. What’s in a name? Tell me and all will be swell.”

“That’s fine. I’m happy ta get outta ya hair any time, hot stuff. Just say the word and I’m gone. I told ya, I’ll be alright,” Anthony said, unruffled. They had this argument every evening. He kept a small bag packed under his bed just in case Alastor finally tired of his presence. “Ya know ya’ve done more than enough t’ help a broad out. I can manage on my—“

“Ha! No. You can’t.” Alastor quipped, waving away the argument with a flippant gesture. “Why, just the other day you nearly accepted some giggle water from another damned heel. My dear, you’re a regular Dumb Dora. I’d say you haven’t learned a single thing since arriving.”

Annnnd now Anthony was pissed. 

“He seemed nice enough. Good lookin’,” Anthony purred, batting his long blonde lashes and bringing their faces a little too close. “Maybe he coulda been my Daddy. I’d make a nice gold digger, don’t ya think? The fellas all say I’m real pretty. Ya might think so too if ya had any balls. Too bad ya don’t.” He was pushing it. He knew he was pushing it. He needed to reign it in. Alastor gave a sharp intake of breath, looking conflicted and irritated suddenly. Anthony touched the older man’s cheek. “A-ah, s-sorry Al. Ya know I’m just jokin’ around… don’t mean t’ make the bluenose blush. Ha ha!”

“I am NOT a bluenose!” Alastor fumed, swatting away the hand. “You, mon Ange, are merely in need of a hard lesson on the consequences of your actions.” 

“Well, let me know when yer finally ready t’ teach me that lesson, Daddy,” Anthony quipped, pecking the other man’s lips. “I look forward t’ it.”

Alastor went rigid.

Fuck. He’d definitely overstepped. 

He’d need that bag. There was no way…

Alastor kissed him. The kiss caught him off guard, practically knocked the wind out of him. A deep, hungry kiss, all spice and heat. He didn’t quite know how to respond, letting the man control the dance of their tongues as he trembled under all these delicious, overwhelming sensations. He tangled his fingers into that neat brown hair and whimpered, wondering if a kiss was worth upending the small safety net he’d built for himself. 

But he wanted it so, so badly. 

Just a little more. One more. Then another. It was only necking, after all. He could make it stop at any time. Just a little more. Alastor lifted him, carried him into the master bedroom, and laid him down on his back. Long fingers fiddled with the ties of his dress, loosening the garment, and beginning to unwrap him. It took Anthony a moment too long to realize he could not afford to be bare before this man. 

“W-wait, A-Alastor. We can’t,” he said, panting and breathless as he clutched the fabric of the dress against his padded chest. So close. Fuck. He’d nearly been exposed. Those odd, dark eyes looked down at him, hungry and sparking like a predator ready to devour its prey. “I-I can’t.”

Alastor stopped briefly, considering him with an off-kilter smile. “Oh horsefeathers! And here I thought you wanted a ‘Daddy’,” he said, the words sounding like a snarl behind the grin. 

“A-Al...” he sighed shakily. “Don’t be mean. I’ve never… I-I—“

Alastor went rigid, studying him more closely. His eyes widened. “Oh! Oh my! So you really are all hat and no cattle? I’m sorry, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid, my dear. I will not touch you again—“

“I didn’t say that!” Anthony cried, then covered his mouth, and screamed internally at himself for not knowing when to shut the fuck up. 

Another pause.

Alastor leaned down and peppered kisses along his neck slowly. Gently. Anthony shuddered, feeling himself melt under that tingling sensation. The man seemed to wait a moment before rejoining their lips, deepening the kiss only when Anthony clung to him. “Charming,” Alastor whispered the word against his lips, wiping away a tear from Anthony’s cheek with a thumb. “Just kissing then?” Anthony nodded. “Alright. I understand. I’ll… take responsibility when you’ll have me, mon Ange. Never fear. All in good time.”

Just kissing.

___

The kisses became a common occurrence. Thankfully, Alastor hardly seemed bothered that Anthony refused to progress any further. They bickered, kissed, chatted, and danced around one another. Sometimes Anthony thought he heard strange sounds coming from upstairs in the room he could not enter. Sounds that made his skin crawl. 

But he ignored them. 

Alastor gave him a curfew. Lights out and in his bedroom by 10pm. The older man locked him in every night despite his protests. No matter how much he whined, begged, or pleaded he could not leave until sunrise. He supposed Alastor didn’t trust him completely. 

That was fair. 

He had secrets. Maybe they both did.

Anthony studied his body in the full length mirror, wincing as he ran his eyes over each hard line and edge. How would he soften them today? Padding, of course, was a necessity. 

This would have been so much easier if he were a broad. Alastor had told him time and time again, between feverish necking and petting, that he would ‘take responsibility’ should his sweetie accept his hand. A stand up guy, ready to marry a dame he barely knew to make up for defiling her virtue.

It was getting too intense. He knew he needed to leave soon. 

They were falling into something he’d never felt before, something he didn’t want to call love. It couldn’t be love, could it. Fuck, he couldn’t have that.

“Mon Ange, are you—“ He was reaching for his corset when Alastor walked into the room. Exposed. Bare. His heart dropped into his stomach.

Silence.

Panic.

Alastor raked those piercing eyes over his body, taking in the very obvious lie between Anthony’s legs. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it. Waiting.

Waiting for an explanation.

Escape. Alastor’s solid body blocked the door. Could he throw something? A lamp? He couldn’t very well run bare ass naked out of this house. He wouldn’t get far, not far at all. 

“Anthony. My name is Anthony,” he said. It was all he could manage to say. “Al, I’m so… I’ll go. Got a bag ready. I-I— Fuck, I’m so—. I didn’t lie about likin ya, just about, well, bein a broad. That’s the only thing. Al, dammit, say somethin’.”

“Anthony,” Alastor repeated the name, considering it. Glare hard. Doubtful. It was some stupid manic panic that compelled Anthony to run up to Alastor— to kiss him— to prove this wasn’t some elaborate con. The lips remained firmly shut at first, but then stretched into a broad smile. He felt that grin against his lips. Creepy bastard. Perhaps he’d run right into the clutches of death. His skin crawled as Alastor’s arms wound around him. “Anthony, my dear, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gut you.”

A singsong voice. It chimed like funeral bells in his ears. Or perhaps wedding bells?

The hand caressing his waist felt heavy, fingers digging into the bare skin like claws. “I can’t. I know what I am, Al, and ya wouldn’t be the first t’ wanna off me fa it… I really didn’t mean… fa it t’ go this far. I shouldn’t’ve kept kissin’ ya. I know that. I just… like ya…and…”

I like you. Those were the words that softened that smile; that warmed those eyes.

“Very well, Mon Ange. A full explanation is in order but…” Alastor’s fingers slid up his spine. His lips found that spot on Anthony’s neck that always made him shiver. “I do believe that you did not set out to ‘con’ me— that this has not been some ridiculous elaborate ruse. Get dressed, my dear. Ah, would you like me to acquire some men’s clothing for you as well?”

Anthony nodded faintly, clinging to those broad shoulders with wide eyes. “Y-ya don’t hate me? Ya ain’t disgusted?”

Alastor blinked. Laughed. “Disgusted? No no no! I am still very much stuck on you, mon cher. Never fear! Anthony… ha! I finally have a name to call you.”

… Anthony kissed him. 

Again, and again, and again.

He would never look at a container of Crisco the same way. 

Anthony cried the first time they did it. Sure, Alastor kissed and coaxed him throughout, lathered his long fingers in Crisco before he massaged the interior of Anthony’s tight, spasming hole. And yes, the older man rubbed a spot that made the blonde moan and gasp. He whispered French nothings in his ear, made tender promises, and always waited for permission before proceeding.

But it still fucking hurt. 

It really fucking hurt.

“God dammit, Al. Stop delightin’ in my pain, ya sick fuck,” he snapped, trembling thighs wound around the man’s waist as that large rod, like some sort of burning piston, slammed into his aching, throbbing hole. Deep. So deep. So hot. His entire body felt hot. The dark glee in that piercing gaze should have concerned him, but mostly it just pissed him off… and also made his cock twitch for some odd reason. 

Alastor leaned down, running a tongue across his cheek to lap away a stray tear. That smile, that wide demented smile, somehow expanded, and Anthony wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with this man he adored. 

Maybe… but he didn’t care.

“I will admit, Mon Ange,” Alastor purred, thrusting that big rod of his slowly into the tight, squeezing heat. He sank his teeth into Anthony’s neck, earning himself a whine of combined pain and pleasure that caused his pace to unconsciously quicken. Anthony’s back arched, his eyes rolled back, and he screamed. “I generally have very little interest in whoopee, but seeing you like this is delightful! Quite the thing! Why, I could live off these tears!” 

“I’m gonna sock ya in the kisser afta’ this, ya fuckin pill,” Anthony gasped, rocking his hips experimentally on the rod. “A-ah! R-right there. Right there. Ti preggo, Amore Mio!”

Alastor froze. Anthony clawed his back with a shriek of frustration. When he opened his eyes, he realized then what he had said in jumbled Italian. “Mon amour,” Alastor hissed in French, kissing him deeply. A kiss like heat and spice. “Je t'aime aussi.”

They understood one another, speaking in two romance languages so close they could hear the love in each other’s words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Review if ya liked it. 👁w👁
> 
> Your reviews are my nourishment!!!!!❤️💕
> 
> Twitter: @LadyinStarlight


	4. Love & Marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Cannibalism, Manipulation, Lies, Angst, Violence, Toxic Love, Heartbreak, Mentions of Torture, Possible Dubious Consent, Poisoning, Choking, Mentions of Societal Pressures to Start a Family, Sad, Shady-Ass Demon Marriage Vows
> 
> Twitter: @LadyInStarlight

On the days they went into the city together, Anthony looked forward to coffee in the French Market. There were two rows of barstools on either side when you entered the establishment, and people of all sorts sipped chicory coffee and munched on beignets under bright bulbous lights. He thought it seemed more a large hallway than a room, rectangular in shape and deeper than it was wide. Over the top of their heads a sign arched, displaying the words ‘Morning Call’ atop a series of bright lights.

The first time they visited, he allowed Alastor to order for him, curious and intimidated by all the new offerings. Now, well, everyone knew ‘Angela’s’ voice. It rose above all the rabble, commanded respect and prompt service. It could also be sweet as molasses and promise a hearty laugh for anyone who managed to get on ‘her’ good side. Both he and Alastor would have a New Orleans-style café au lait with beignets dusted in powdered sugar. The scents that filled the air, so sweet and cozy, made Anthony’s mouth water. 

He went by Angela in public. The name he’d used on the Crescent Limited. It was easier to play a dame, especially when he wanted to cling to Alastor’s arm wherever they went, to enjoy the tender words and soft praises in public without inciting scorn or wrath. 

No, being Angela was easier. 

“Well, I’ll be. If it ain’t Angie come to town! I haven’t seen yer pretty face in a while, sugah. That husband of yours keeps ya all locked up out in the country,” A merry voice drawled in a sweet, Southern accent. The woman, an older dame whom he met while fighting over produce at the market, smiled warmly. Despite their ridiculous beginnings, Anthony found that most people liked him… or rather liked Angela. Making friends came easily when he didn’t filter himself, didn’t always try to say what his pa wanted to hear. He felt Alastor’s gaze flick to him, those lips twitching upwards in amusement. 

“Yeah well, I told ya, the man’s a selfish bore,” Anthony said, flashing Alastor a toothy grin when he arched a brow. “Cookin and cleanin. That’s my lot in life. And what do I get fa it? A shoppin’ trip just once a week. Cruel is what it is.”

“Oh, sugar, you’ll have your hands more than full when the two of you start having children.” The woman laughed. She didn’t mean anything by it, but Angel felt his stomach sink.

An impossibility like a smack in the face. 

Alastor’s lips pressed against his cheek, the arm around his waist drawing him closer, squeezing his hip to distract him. 

A game of pretend. When reality shined its cruel light on the fairytale, suddenly the cracks in the glass seemed all too obvious. His chest felt… hollow. They would never be married. They would never have children. He would never escape the stain of his family. None of this would ever be… real.

Then, Alastor sung a line from Helen Kane’s ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You’ in his ear; voice a low, silky whisper: “I wanna be loved by you, just you.”

Anthony smiled back at him, biting his lower lip. “And nobody else but you,” he sang back.

Their song.

His heart felt full once more. 

Chicory coffee had a chocolatey taste. He reveled in the warmth and the bittersweetness on his tongue. They left the coffee stand once once the craving was quenched and fell into step side by side, Anthony’s hand tucked in the crook of Alastor’s arm. 

“Husband?” Alastor tittered, arching both of his brows. “You might have told me we were married, Mon Ange!”

“Well I couldn’t very well say we was livin in sin,” Anthony snapped, cheeks flushing bright pink. 

“Oh it’s simply berries, Mon Ange,” Alastor said, tapping his nose. “Just the snake’s hips! Quite the tale you’ve woven while beating your gums with the other hens.”

“Lay off it, will ya? Just ya keep teasin’ me and see what happens,” Anthony said, batting away the finger. “Keep this up and bank’s closed t’night.”

A bark of laughter. Alastor planted his lips against Anthony’s flushed cheek. “Ha!” Now now! No need to cast a kitten! I’ll simply need to secure us some wedding bands to support this little story of yours, my dear.” 

“F-fa real?” Anthony stammered. 

“Ab-so-lute-ly! Why not?” 

He felt like he was floating. Really, truly floating. He didn’t know why. Maybe love just did that to a fella. Alastor’s arm kept him grounded, tethered to the earth so his head wouldn’t float too far above the clouds. “It’s too bad I ain’t a dame,” he said with a sigh. 

“That woman’s words upset you.” Alastor said, more a statement of fact than a question.

Anthony studied the interweaving ironworks on the colorful boxy buildings, like intricate lace balconies formed of metal. “Yeah,” he said, running a palm over one of the gas street lamps as he passed, almost tenderly in a show of appreciation. “Stuff I can’t do, ya know? Stuff we can’t do. She ain’t the first one t’ say it though. Lotsa older people ask when I’m plannin’ on havin’ kids. Makes me feel real sorry fa all the dames who get this shit on the regular, ya know? Sometimes I just say, ‘oh we’re tryin’ and that sometimes shuts em up. Makes me feel like a failure somehow… even though it’s literally fuckin impossible.”

“We don’t need children to be a family, mon amour,” Alastor said softly. “We have each other, and that is all we need. Better not to dwell on the impossible.” 

Yes. It was better not to dwell on the impossible. 

Lately his allowance for these days together in the city had dwindled. He considered asking how Alastor they were doing financially, but bit his tongue. City days were happy days, and really he didn’t need much to be happy. Why ruin it with questions about finances? Still…

“Don’t feel like ya gotta spend big on the rings,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Anythin will do. If a piece of twine was the thing that bound us t’gether, I’d be just as happy as I would with a diamond ring, ya know? Fa real, Smiles. Yer enough fa me. Just you.”

Alastor smiled, paused their steps, took Anthony’s hand in his own, and kissed his knuckles tenderly. A long, lingering kiss that set the blonde man’s cheeks blazing. 

This charming bastard.

—

Stir the sauce.

Stir the sauce.

Sure, Alastor seemed to do well enough despite the depression. He had a house, an automobile, and what at first appeared to be a stable enough occupation as some sorta radio host, but they weren’t immune to the effects of the Depression. As the months passed, Anthony noticed their trips to the city together becoming less and less frequent, watched Alastor bend over his desk and rub his temples whenever he worked on the accounts. He suspected his fella may have lost his job, or at least taken a hit. He couldn’t get the details out of him, only kisses and assurances that they would… be okay.

Anthony did not complain. Not fucking once. Instead, he got fucking creative. 

Anthony thanked his mother in his prayers for teaching him how to cook. He heard about food riots across the country and people dying of starvation in a country that was supposed to be better… stronger. 

He did his best to stretch everything in the pantry, to make their meals last as long as possible. He had to balance flavor with a highly limited supply, had to ensure volume when he had almost nothing to work with. The freezer full of meat started to steadily piss him off. Why the FUCK did Alastor have a fancy new contraption full of meat? Meat only HE could touch? Meat from long hunting trips that left the man wild-eyed and jumpy. He was sick of the nonsense.

No more bullshit excuses. After five days of broth, Anthony decided he was gonna cook with that fucking meat. Tonight, they would eat well, and if Alastor wanted to complain, he could kiss Anthony’s ass. He had tomatoes from his garden, a bushel of herbs hanging from the kitchen ceiling, some dried fucking pasta, and a hunk of ground up fucking venison thawing on the counter.

Of course he found the fucking keys. His fella kept them hidden in a false drawer in his desk. Anthony knew a thing or two about tricks and secret stashes. It was easy. Fuckin child’s play.

“Anthony, what are you doing?” The words were spoken in a low voice, edged with that strange wild sort of hysteria his lover sometimes displayed after his stupid hunting trips. “Where did you get that, my dear?”

“The white chiller,” Anthony returned, tone clipped.

He didn’t expect the hand that folded around his throat. A squeezing, suffocating hold. He gasped, breathless, and dropped the wooden spoon in his hand. Alastor’s broad chest pressed against his back. “What. Did. I. Tell. You?!” He hissed, snarling the words in a voice Anthony had never heard before. 

The air returned just as darkness like black lace formed along the edges of his vision. He gasped, inhaling sharply. “Al, what the fuck is wrong with ya!” he shouted, swiveling around to face the man. He froze when he looked into those eyes. Those mad, dark eyes. “What, ya gonna start chokin me now? Wanna try hittin me too?” He said, leaning up and kissing the strange, mangled smile. “Yer fuckin crazy.”

Alastor studied him, blinked, and reached between them to cup the half-hard bulge steadily growing in Anthony’s pants. He laughed then, the black rage cracking into a manic mirth. “Not as crazy as you, Mon Ange.” His lips trailed apologetically along the smooth expanse of white neck. “I’m sorry. That was… out of line.”

Anthony flushed. “Yeah… but… can we try it again later? Ya know, maybe in the bedroom,” he said, offering up more of his neck to teeth and lips. 

Those dark eyes lit up then, narrowing with interest, before flicking back to the meat on the counter and darkening. “Yes, but… Mon Ange—“

“I’m gonna try t’ make a sauce with it. We’ve had nothin’ but broth fa nearly a week and— hush, don’t ya open yer mouth t’ argue. Let me finish— I thought I could make us a meal outta this. I know. I know. Ya keep sayin we’re doin just fine, but I ain’t fuckin blind, hot stuff.” He pressed their foreheads together; Kissed Alastor tenderly to soothe the rigidity from his back and shoulders. “I’ll get myself a job as soon as possible. Help out with the income. But fa t’day—“

“No,” Alastor said sharply. “It’s too risky. You’re a man masquerading as a woman. Ex mafia at that. No. You will stay in this house.”

Anthony deflated, rolling his eyes. “Will ya let me cook ya dinner then, fa fuck’s sake?”

Alastor winced, eyes hungry with something like lust. They also seemed… oddly conflicted at the same time. Anthony could feel the man’s adoration wrapping around him, lifting him onto a pedestal that he didn’t think he deserved. Why? Why did Alastor look so enamored with him in that moment? “Fine.”

He went back to cooking. The meat was… strange.

It tasted off.

But, then again, he didn’t know shit about venison. 

Alastor watched him while he ate with a look Anthony could only describe as gleeful distress. He knew something was very wrong— he knew if he looked close enough he would find the answers to questions he refused to have. 

Instead, he reached across the table and took Alastor’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

There was a line in the sand and for some reason Anthony felt like he had crossed it… somehow. He didn’t know when exactly he had crossed it. The first bite perhaps? He didn’t know where the line was or what it represented, but he knew somehow, someway, he had crossed a line today, and there was no going back. He and Alastor were bound together by something terrible and he would not think about it. He refused to think about it, because he was happy in this moment with the man he loved.

He had crossed a line today…

That evening marked the end of nights spent sleeping in the guest bedroom downstairs. He moved into the master with Alastor, found himself wrapped securely in those arms, and knew— deep down— that he would not give up this feeling for the world. He would go to hell for this man.

But he still wasn’t allowed near the upstairs guest bedroom…

Why?

Stir the sauce.

Stir the sauce.

Bad meat. Bad meat.

-WhAt WaS IN ThAt RoOm?!-

Months passed.

The room haunted him. 

Sometimes he felt as though he were living in a dream, walking through his life in a haze of bliss that he didn’t want to leave behind, but the dream would culminate in a nightmare someday. He knew it would. 

He also knew he could never live without this high; a blissful, erratic sorta high that came with being happy in love with his Smiles. 

In his waking dream, he was in a little house, a raised Creole-style home, making a sauce. If he had the spice, he liked to add a little kick to it. He could ignore the screams in forbidden rooms on nights when his man didn’t come to bed. How long had it been since the day they met? A year?

What was in that room?

He didn’t want to know. He wanted everything to stay the same. He wanted to fold himself into Alastor, to see every good part of this man he loved— the tenderness, the warmth, and the wit. But he couldn’t stop feeling… 

Fear. Curiosity.

Kisses on his neck. Arms wrapped around him from behind. When would the sauce be done? 

Be patient. Be patient. I love you. 

Nowadays, he quietly cooked the meat Alastor brought him, and he didn’t ask questions. Where? When? How? Who?

Wait, why did ‘who’ come to mind?

He liked playing housewife. The pink apron suited him. They had sex sometimes, but it wasn’t just sex. It was a deep, lingering affection. Companionship. Sometimes he dressed as a woman and went to the market… when they could afford to shop from the market. Others thought he was the man’s young wife. A nice little fantasy. They asked them when they planned to start a family. He said they were trying. It was a lie that shut them up. 

He wished they could have a family together.

He wished the fantasy were real.

But even if they weren’t two men in the year 1932, even if they could be married and have a child together, something was all wrong in this house. Something was wrong in this fog… this fantasy. 

Midnight. 

He was opening a door. Was he the wife in that Bluebeard tale? 

Blood. So much blood. Flesh. The smell. Fuck, the smell. He’d shot fellas, but this was different. This was so different. Skin like hide. Bones. Shrunken heads. Wrong. So wrong. He had known deep down what he would find. He should have known, but he didn’t want to know. Screaming. Was he screaming? Nothing was coming out.

A hand over his eyes, like a blindfold. A soft crooning voice. Shhh it’s just a bad dream. Shhh. 

The voice made him melt. Teeth on his neck like an anchor. 

He could let it be a bad dream…

A fairytale eroding. He couldn’t escape crime. He couldn’t escape murder. The world was just too fucked. Even when he fell in love… his lover turned out to be…

Run.

RUN!

And just like that, after a year of dreaming, reality burned him awake— a night terror that became truth in the snap of an instant. 

He elbowed Alastor in the ribs. Swung his fist around and punched him in the face. A mean right hook.

Then he ran. 

He made it outside before Alastor wrestled him to the ground, pinning him in the dirt with his arms behind his back. “Mon Ange, please just listen to me! Calm down!” The man said, his voice a strained command, blood dripping from his mouth. “Shhh shhh relax. There there now. No need to panic, my dear. Let’s talk about this.”

Alastor rolled him onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head. There was a twisted grin on those bloodstained lips. Alastor’s pupils seemed much too small— the whites of his eyes much too large. 

The heart in Anthony’s chest had become a drum, thumping to a beat he did not recognize. A quick beat. A wild beat. A beat as old as hunters and gatherers— as old as predator and prey.

He struggled but when he opened his mouth he could not scream. 

It was like sleep paralysis, but real. There was a demon on his chest and no one could hear him scream.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Fuck Al… what have ya fuckin’ done,” he breathed, voice cracking on a sob. Droplets of blood dripped onto his face.

“They deserved it. I promise.” Alastor said, searching Anthony’s face as he thrashed and squirmed. He lifted him, pulled his writhing body behind the house. Anthony didn’t want to know where the heavy shackles came from or why Alastor had them. They bound his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the earth, as if his mad beloved was worried he might fly away. The cool metal scraped against his skin. Alastor crouched beside him, studying him with dark, flashing eyes. He ran a hand along Anthony’s cheek seeming… so very tired. 

They both exhaled in tandem. 

“Let me explain…” Alastor whispered. 

“Don’t.” Anthony hissed. “Just… make me forget what I saw. Fuck, Al. I need to forget. It needs to be a nightmare. I-I love you.” Tears. He melted when the madman kissed him. The metallic taste of blood mingled between them. Blood and spice. There was something… so pleasing about the bite of the chains… and those dangerous eyes. “Please, Smiles. Please hurt me. Hurt. Me.”

What was wrong with him?

He was bound to the ground.  
By the shackles on his wrists.  
And they kissed. Kissed.  
Kissed kissed kissed.

Oh the darkness felt divine,  
When he was rendered blind.  
And they kissed. Kissed.  
Kissed kissed kissed.

And the branding barely score,  
So he begged for more.  
And they kissed. Kissed.  
Kissed kissed kissed.

The end of a nightmare…

He had to drug a sauce to get away… weeks later. He wanted to stay, but he knew he couldn’t stay. The man he loved was a monster and he would be a monster too if he remained. 

How could he stay knowing what Alastor did— what he was? Well, sure, he could easily live happily ever after in this house of depravity and sin. He knew he could, but that would be… wrong. Evil. 

Anthony was many things, but he was not evil.

He wasn’t able to forget, though he tried. Goodness knows he tried. Alastor trusted him not to run away, spoke such pretty words, and made him question what he saw. He tried to use that silver tongue of his to soothe away the nightmarish images from his mind. He tried… but Anthony still remembered, despite himself.

The only way to forget would be to disappear… to go backwards in time.

To pretend none of this ever happened. 

Anthony put a little kick in the sauce to make his man sleep… just like he’d seen Ma do oh so many times before. 

He looked so peaceful when slept. Anthony kissed his cheeks, his face, and his lips goodbye. 

Out the door in a flash, don’t look back. 

Never look back.

Oh, life swings around and around.

And around…

— Present —

“Charlie, it’s fuckin’ fineeee,” Angel groaned, trying to convince the princess of Hell to chill the fuck out while also keeping his glaring fiancé at bay. “Fa fuck’s sake, will ya trust me already? I KNOW what I’m gettin’ myself into.”

Well… the Cthulhu-lookin mother-fucker officiating their impromptu ceremony was certainly a fucking surprise, as were all the glowing green lights and the symbols floating around them. And sure, Alastor had gone dial-eyed for the most part and his frequency seemed all fucked up, but…

Really at this point Angel knew this shit was par for the course with the Radio Demon. 

“Angel, just have a NICE wedding with a NORMAL demon officiating and REGULAR vows,” Charlie pleaded, looking over at Vaggie who just shook her head and shrugged. She was beyond over it with their shenanigans. “Oh, for goodness— Angel, Alastor is… he’s a deal maker and you’re about to enter into—“

“Listen toots, I already know that. Look at this creepy motha fucker.” He said, pointing a thumb at the grinning Radio Demon whose ghastly smile seemed to stretch past his ears, all razor sharp teeth and menace. His horns had begun to grow in irritation. “He ain’t as fuckin subtle as he thinks he is. Ya think I don’t know I’m walkin inta some bullshit? Of course I do!” He laughed then, shaking his head. “I want this, Charlie. Ain’t no big deal. Just accept that we’re a weird toxic fuckin mess and ya ain’t eva’ gonna understand us.”

Charlie nodded uncertainly, pursing her lips in a pinched look of concern. Angel trotted back into Alastor’s arms, running his fingers along a growing set of antlers. “Chill, Smiles. We’re good t’ go now,” he said, chuckling as a strong arm wound around his waist. “Easy handsome. I’m all yours. It’s showtime.”

The Eternal Vow:

When the world comes to an end,  
and the seas, they burn again,  
and fire comes and land goes,  
and stars collide in all their throws,  
oh then oh then,  
we still shall find,  
each other bound in this soulbind.  
As I am yours and you are mine,  
I vow myself to this soulbind.

Find me where I am,  
wherever that may be.  
Lose me not to circumstance,  
for I am yours, you see.  
Call me to your side,  
from even realms apart.  
Above all else I am,  
half your beating heart.  
As I am yours and you are mine,  
I vow myself to this soulbind.

And if one day we live again,  
By happenstance, as foe or friend,  
We’ll come together in the end,  
Without fail, our hearts shall bend.  
As I am yours and you are mine,  
I vow myself to this soulbind.

Sure, it wasn’t a conventional marriage, even by demon standards…

But Angel thought it was pretty goddamn perfect. 

They could finally get to the fuckin’ honeymoon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Reviewwwwwwwe 👁👄👁❤️💕
> 
> Give me those delicious wordsssss.  
> Yum yum yum yum.


	5. Honeymoon: Hell Beaches Are Gross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Half in Alastor’s POV, Some Toxic/Controlling Thought Processes, General Grossness Regarding Descriptions of Hell Beaches, Probably some Codependency
> 
> Twitter @LadyInStarlight

Chapter 5: Honeymoon

Angel loved his wedding band. It resembled a golden twist of braided twine. A ruby, as rich in its redness as a droplet of blood, cradled in its center. Whenever he happened to glance down at his hand, he found himself enthralled by the intricacy of the ring— by the care paid to crafting each small detail, every delicate curve. 

A ring of twine…

He had lost so many pieces of his past, forgotten so many precious moments. Lately, fragments came to him: a recap of a quiet conversation, a snippet of a song, the significance of a small gesture, a fleeting glance, or a snapshot of happiness frozen somewhere in the past. 

It could have thrilled him, but unfortunately with the good also came the bad. Bits and pieces of darker memories also resurfaced: a red flag he’d overlooked, the peculiar taste of human flesh, and the scent of death. 

But all those horrors were nothing compared to the flashes of memory about leaving New Orleans; Moments spent alone in a stolen car that smelled like Alastor, rest stops along the drive where he would do… anything… to forget, to feel something akin to the high of happiness so swiftly lost, and then arriving in New York City broken and only half himself. 

He remembered leaving a simple wedding band on the nightstand. He remembered kissing Alastor’s sleeping face before he left. 

He sometimes woke in a cold sweat; shaking, sobbing, and overcome with the fear he was Anthony again— back in New York City. In those moments, he would look for Alastor if the man was not already coiled around him like a snake— not already awake and soothing him. 

For most, the sight of glowing red eyes and smiling fangs watching them in the darkness would be an extension of the nightmare. For Angel, it was sweet relief.

When flashes of the past came to him in the daylight, he need only glance down at the ring on his finger to remind himself where he was and how life— or rather death— had brought him back around to where he wanted to be. 

He knew it wasn’t perfect. He knew they needed fixing. 

But they had an eternity to figure it out.

Nothing a few centuries of intense therapy wouldn’t fix, and he had a list of good therapists stashed away under his side of the fuckin mattress.

But first, the fuckin honeymoon! 

The heat of the circular pentagram in the sky was like sunshine on Angel’s fur, the pena colada in his hand tasted halfway decent, and if he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of waves crashing against the shore he could forget that everything in hell sucked and that the water was black as pitch and full of monstrosities. 

Annnnd then some morons started fucking on a towel not 10 feet from him. God fucking dammit! Seriously, what was with those awful fucking sounds and why in broad fucking daylight?

“Oh fa fuck’s sake, get a fuckin room!” He shouted, sitting up and glaring over the top of his hot pink sunglasses at a pair of moaning slug demons, their slimy skin sizzling and frothing with salt. Ew. No. Why? So much for paradise. “I can tell what you’re fuckin doin’! Ya ain’t subtle!”

“Hey ain’t you Angel Dust, the pornstar?” An eager, unaffected voice. Seriously, not this shit again. “Wanna join?”

“Yeah, nah. I think I’ll pass on that,” he said, rolling his eyes and gathering his things. Fuck this. He’d go to the pool and hope they’d finally cleaned out the piece of shit he’d seen floating around in the piss-filled waters yesterday. 

… On second thought, maybe he’d just go back to the hotel room and face his husband’s smug fucking face. 

He knew slinking back into the penthouse suite with a towel rolled up under one arm and a forced smile on his face hardly looked convincing. Alastor sat on the bed, reading a book. His eyes flicked towards Angel, filled with something like mirth as he entered the room. Waiting.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, ya fuckin pill!”

“I have not said anything, mon cher,” Alastor queried, arching a brow. He crooked a finger, gesturing for Angel to come to him. 

Angel tossed the offending towel aside and slid off his bathing suit, hissing in irritation at all the sand caught in his fur. Oh Satan, it was everywhere. “You’re talkin shit with your fuckin eyes,” he said, approaching the bed.

The widening of that strange smile. Clawed fingers combed through his tit fluff, flicking one of the nubs ‘accidentally’.

The amount of sand that fell onto the floor was fucking ridiculous. 

“Alright, fine!” Angel finally conceded, letting Alastor loop an arm around him and teleport them to the wide circular bathtub. He had to shower down before they could even enjoy it together, get rid of most of the fucking sand. “You were right and I was wrong. Ya fuckin happy now? Goin ‘tropical’ fa the honeymoon was a shit fuckin idea. Hell beaches are fuckin DISGUSTING!” 

A tub full of piping hot water soothed out some of the tension that came with intense frustration and… disappointment. It especially helped when Alastor slid into the bath and pulled him into his lap. “Well, my dear, I hate to say I told you so!” Alastor said, but his eyes matched his amused smile. “But I am sure you can find other ways to amuse yourself that involve less sand and sun. Besides the obvious.” Those words were punctuated by clawed hands spreading his round ass cheeks. 

The thick length of Alastor’s cock slid against Angel’s gaping, abused little hole under the hot water. “W-wait, Al—“ he barely got the words out, grasping his husband’s shoulders as the bulbous tip pressed against his over-fucked asshole. “I-it’s still s-sore.”

Admitting his ass still fuckin hurt… the words came as a shock even to him. Here he was, a former pornstar, and his often sex-apathetic husband had fucked him so long and hard the night before, that he feared he was becoming a loose, sloppy mess.

Still… the feel of that large cock against him already had him squirming. Just one more time couldn’t hurt. 

Lips on his neck, teeth nibbling down to his shoulder. “Well, we can’t have that, Mon Amour. Take all the time you need.” 

Angel whimpered as a clawed hand gave one of his cheeks a final squeeze. Fuck, he did want it— but another time. For now, he’d enjoy the lips and teeth, melt into that warm embrace surrounded by a pool of hot water. 

“I almost stepped on a syringe t’day,” he said, running his fingers over the red poof-like ears. “And two gross-ass slugs started fuckin real loud right near me. Asked me t’ join. Fuckin swell, right?” He paused, biting back his laughter at the way those lips twitched and brows furrowed in disgust. “How was your day, Smiles? You regret not goin’ with me t’ lay out? Ya mighta found all the garbage and glass real fuckin aesthetic.”

“Why, I’m simply green with envy!” Alastor said, eyes opening wide and brows arching in a show of amusement. “And here I was spending all my time with a good book in a quiet, comfortable room! I could have been studying the copulation practices of slug demons all this time! You have opened my eyes, my dear! I will follow your lead tomorrow, I promise.”

Angel choked on a laugh. “Fuckin smart ass,” he said, pressing their foreheads together. Lately, he’d noticed that Alastor appeared more at ease. The most powerful demon marriage vows the bastard could find definitely helped. Well, Angel didn’t mind. In fact, he had some ideas about these vows that he wanted to test out.

A kiss like spice. Heated. Hungry.

“Doll yourself up and throw on your glad rags, mon cher,” Alastor announced. Another kiss. Long. Tender. “We’re putting on the ritz tonight!”

Alastor loved his wedding band. He’d never thought pink was his color, but the winking stone cradled in gold, like braided twine, reminded him of Angel. There was no sweeter relief. 

He also loved watching Angel move. The spider flitted about with a sultry grace; a swiftness paired with the immaculate footwork of a dancer. Stunning, really. His favorite daily show. 

Of course, he would never say that aloud.

He studied his attire in a floor-length mirror built into one of the closet doors, and made a few adjustments to the style with a snap of his fingers. A little bit of flair to his usual garb. A bit more formal. Spiffy. Better. In his peripheral, he eyed Angel’s reflection, watching him glide around the room in a hectic dance. Clothes everywhere. Makeup spilling out of his bags and onto the floor. Loud, Italian cursing that Alastor could only assume was incredibly crass. 

It was a comforting sort of chaos. 

He had foreseen that Angel would hate the “tropical” honeymoon in hell option, tried to push him in another direction, but really once his stubborn daisy of a man got a notion in his head, there was no moving him. Better to just agree, say “yes dear”, and let Angel see for himself that hell beaches were, well, Hellish. He also thought it advantageous to keep several reservations for proper entertainment in his back pocket to amuse his husband when the spider’s mood inevitably took a turn for the worse.

They could salvage this. They just needed a little razzle-dazzle! 

And really, he didn’t want their honeymoon to be a disappointment. After everything they’d been through, everything his beloved had put up with, Angel deserved the best. And Alastor would make sure he always had the very best.

In life, he had been on the nut for much of their time together, on the cusp of losing the house— everything. Now, well, he was something of a high pillow in hell! He’d never rated his wealth or influence with particular interest until he found his Anthony again. Now, it provided some particularly remarkable conveniences. He could spoil Angel. He could play this “Daddy” role. 

Angel dodged around him, bending over in front of him to go through a suitcase that Alastor suspected consisted only of underwear. He’d counted seven suitcases in total. Absolute lunacy, but that plump white bottom did seem particularly enticing when it wagged so close to him. Someone clearly wanted some attention. He gave it a pinch and enjoyed watching Angel flush and jump, his reactions so big and animated. Very amusing. He was rewarded with a playful kiss and a smack on the chest before his spider flitted away again, a pair of black and red lingerie in one hand. Those were new.

He had an eternity to make right so many wrongs, but Angel was… finally, securely his, and no one could convince him he hadn’t made the correct choice in binding them together. 

He didn’t need to worry about losing him again…

“Do ya think Charlie’s takin good care of the baby,” Angel said, frowning slightly as he held up two dresses, a short shimmery black number and a long backless crimson dress that had a tantalizingly high slit up the side to show some leg. “I oughta call her again…”

Alastor always had a smile, naturally. Why, you were never fully dressed without one, and not maintaining a smile was a sign of weakness in his book! But his smile was real in that moment. He did not have to bear the usual pained ache he felt in keeping it constantly plastered on his lips. Sweet relief in genuine joy. Those periods of relief were so frequent with Angel. “I am certain Fat Nuggets is doing swimmingly, my dear,” he said, unable to stop himself from surrounding the red dress in a green glow, indicating his preference. Angel tossed him a grin and pitched the black one aside. 

The baby. He needed to remember to bring something back for Nuggets. He’d keep an eye out for a treat the little pig would like. 

“Ya say that, but he don’t get pissy with ya when ya leave fa more than a day,” Angel said, fixing up his hair and makeup with six fast-working arms. Remarkably convenient, Alastor thought. “He gives me the cold shoulda’ if I ain’t around fa a while. Real mad and huffy. Then he hides a single shoe somewhere I can’t find it. Ya know how many pairs of shoes I have that I can’t fuckin wear because ONE SHOE is just fuckin missin’?”

“How many, dear?”

“Twelve!” Angel said with a bark of laughter. “Twelve shoes without a partner. So somewhere in that fuckin room— I have no idea where— there is a pile of hoarded shoes that he adds t’ wheneva’ he’s pissed at me.”

A riveting mystery, most definitely, but Alastor could not stop laughing long enough to think up a feasible answer to where the shoes might be hidden. 

“Don’t laugh, ya fuckin ass!” Angel said with mock rage that didn’t quite match the brilliant smile one his face. “Right now, as we speak, that pig is probably nosin’ through the closet and findin’ one of my favorite boots t’ add t’ his stash. You’re payin fa it, if he does, Deer Daddy. I hope he starts stealin’ your shit too!”

“It has to be in the room, Mon Amour!” Alastor said, struggling to speak between stifled laughter. He had a flash of memory: Anthony dolling himself up before they went out into the city— the two of them chinning and chuckling as they prepared for the day. Happy mornings spent in soft, golden light. Laughter. Smiling. It was so easy. If only he’d been able to stop… killing… if only he’d made the death in that house disappear, gotten rid of all the evidence. They could have been happy back then. They could have made it work until the day they died. But would they have ended up in the same place, or would Anthony have gone to heaven? “Where would he—“

“Al, I’ve looked every-fuckin-where,” Angel said, standing and sliding into his dress. It fit him like a second skin, the sweetheart neckline accentuating certain aesthetically pleasing attributes of that fluffy chest. He looked… breathtaking. “There ain’t no answer that makes a lick of sense. We just gotta accept he has his ways and try not t’ piss him off. It’s the only way our wardrobes will survive.”

A kiss that tasted strawberries and cream. In general, Alastor disliked most sweet things, but there were a select few exceptions; Angel’s kisses being at the top of that list. Delicious. He pushed the spider up against the wall, grabbed those lovely long legs, lifted them, and wrapped them around his waist. Angel’s fingers tangled in his hair, stroking his sensitive ears. Dammit. Self control. Self control. He needed to have self control. His ears twitched. He could hear that enticing breathless panting and whining as he nibbled along Angel’s neck. He could bite him. Angel’s would beg for him to take him again if he bit him. No. No. Self control. “You’re still sore,” he said, with some effort, but he was certain to veil it behind a light, playful tone. “Later perhaps?”

“What? No! Fuck, Smiles. Bite me and shove it in me!” Angel practically screamed the words and Alastor was more than happy to oblige.

No. He did not regret binding Angel to him forever with the strongest demon marriage vows he could get his hands on. 

Not in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Review ❤️👁👄👁

**Author's Note:**

> Please Kudos and Reviewwwww 👁👄👁


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